We often view storytelling as chiefly character-oriented, where worldbuilding serves as a figurative stage upon which characters and their narrative roles are emphasized. In reality, worldbuilding is not simply a delivery mechanism — it is an entire craft in itself.

Authors like Terry Pratchett and J.R.R. Tolkien write characters as extensions of the worlds they find themselves in, instead of simply existing within them. While the narratives of characters like Frodo Baggins often take center stage, they comprise part of a greater whole. The stories they impart are a part of their world, just as the story of their world is part of them. This artistic symbiosis only strengthens each half of the writing process when balanced correctly.

One of Tolkien’s greatest achievements as an artist is precisely this balance — and in fact, his approach to worldbuilding often brings Arda and Middle-earth to the center stage as much as the Fellowship. My favorite aspect of this approach is the inclusion and development of constructed languages, or conlangs.

For centuries, conlangs have been developed for a multitude of reasons. On one hand, a linguist might develop an engineered language, or engelang, in order to test a hypothesis about how the phenomenon of language works. One such example is that of Toki Pona, which was developed with the intent to express complex ideas by combining elements of a minimalist vocabulary containing less than 150 words.

On the other hand, a conlang may be developed in order to function as an auxiliary language, or auxlang — that is, a conlang developed with the intent of easing international communication or to establish a universal means thereof. One such example is Esperanto, a conlang developed for the express purpose of international communication. Though its goals were lofty, Esperanto — like many other auxlangs — failed for a number of reasons, from the eurocentrism of its creator’s approach to the oversimplified nature of its vocabulary.

By contrast, the development of conlangs for worldbuilding falls into a third category: artistic languages, or artlangs, developed for the purpose of storytelling or purely aesthetic pleasure. Two of the most famous artlangs are Quenya and Sindarin, which Tolkien developed to be spoken by various diasporic communities of Elves throughout Arda, the overarching setting of Tolkien’s legendarium.

When developing languages for storytelling, emphasis is often placed on making the conlangs in question seem naturalistic — that is, ensuring that conlangs are designed and developed in such a way that they mimic the emergence and evolution of natural languages, and are thus relatively plausible within the context of their setting. This is no easy feat — but the intricacy of naturalistic conlangs only adds appeal to their place in worldbuilding.

Like the characters depicted in narrative prose, conlangs are intrinsically tied to the world or worlds they are spoken across and are often developed within the context of broader lore. For instance, Tolkien’s approach to conlanging was to develop an assortment of iterations of Quenya and Sindarin, which are spoken at various times and places across Arda and Middle-earth.

At no point did Quenya or Sindarin exist in a vacuum; their history and that of their speakers are inseparable. Even the meanings and etymologies of root words in Tolkien’s conlangs are designed to draw upon aspects of Elven history and culture.

Thus arises the beauty of conlanging as a tool for worldbuilding and storytelling: Conlangs allow storytellers to show through speech rather than prose. Conlangs breathe life into the worlds they are made for, allowing them to take center stage through dialogue alone. When a conlang develops, it continues the story of its setting and its speakers, just as the stories of the latter fuel narrative progression. 

As wonderful as conlangs can be, however, they must be developed with care. Like all aspects of storytelling, the art of conlanging is not without ethical quandary, and indeed it is necessary for aspiring worldbuilders to approach the craft with responsibility and respect. Just as conlangs are tied to the worlds they are developed for, so too is the conlanging process tied to the real-world languages from which it draws inspiration.

Many conlangs tend to be influenced by eurocentrism and, as a result, Orientalist attitudes can influence how and why conlangs are made. While Ludovic Zamenhof’s goal in creating Esperanto may not have explicitly been to reinforce eurocentrism, his conlang was based almost entirely on the syntax, phonology and vocabulary of European languages, and is thus hardly a universal auxlang.

As for artlangs such as Klingon, which intentionally draws influence from indigenous American and Southeast Asian languages for the express purpose of sounding “alien,” a major problem arises via the exoticization of non-European languages that have been historically endangered through colonialism and imperialism. In this case, Orientalism and racism work their way deep into the worldbuilding process, and are impossible to separate from the racist connotations of the Klingons’ portrayal in Star Trek. 

In order to engage in responsible conlanging, one must engage in introspection not just with their creative process, but also with the intent behind depicting the speakers of a conlang-to-be — as well as whether or not the depictions in question are influenced by Orientalism and racism. To worldbuild with respect and awareness, it is important to ask not just whether one wants to make a conlang, but also for whom and why.

Though not without necessary ethical questions, conlanging is ultimately a beautiful art if approached responsibly. If done in a way that does not caricaturize, artlangs can invigorate a setting and its characters, and can become a unique lens through which to convey depth and nuance in storytelling.